Speak to Me
by AbovetheCloudsandDreaming
Summary: Some wounds never fully heal. But with a little bit of help, perhaps they can finally mend and leave nothing but a permanent scar.


Some nights are easy. Falling asleep takes no time at all and requires zero effort, especially if she's all swallowed up by some nebulous mass of blanket and lots of... _him._

A bright-eyed smile will be carved into her face like all is right with the world. She'll be gazing up at him from the depths of his embrace, looking so fucking _happy_ because she won't have a single damn worry while curled up in his arms. Although, inevitably, more than a few stupid pun-filled jokes will get cracked. And he'll groan and roll his eyes, then make some empty threat to sleep on the floor and leave her _alone_ if she keeps at it. All in jest, obviously, because they both know he wouldn't dare, know there's a thinly masked truth he only sometimes admits, but usually doesn't; Ellie in his arms means home, means serenity. Then before long she'll be completely gone, lights out, and clinging to a subtle smile while dreaming something _wonderful_ and sleeping like an angel.

Yeah, _those_ nights? Well, those nights are easy.

Others are harder. A lot harder.

The harder nights usually involve flashes of horror threading her conscience. Images of piled bodies. The unmistakable screams of Infected. The scent of death. The phantom sensation of a biting cold. And the thought that maybe she shouldn't even be _here,_ be alive. Each painful memory is short lived, but then seamlessly flows into the next one. And there are _so_ goddamn many, each one fast, rapid, and hard to latch onto while her brain replays the past on an infinite loop. It'll take at least a few hours before that restless noodle of hers finally slows, until her eyelids wilt to the point of closure. And only then will she be emitting signature soft snores into the crook of his neck while he sleeps like a hibernating bear, having dozed off long before her.

Yeah, those harder nights? Well, she manages, gets through it, with him, like they do with everything. Like they've always done with everything.

But some nights, despite the presence of her anchor, just seem impossible.

Even on a night like this one with a full moon in the black, velvety sky, the entirety of the bedroom basking in its nocturnal, lunar glow. Stars twinkling in the midnight can be seen through the bedroom window, not a cloud in sight. And it's warm, too, as she's only wearing a much-too-small pair of shorts, and one of his flannels, but that's really more for the smell than anything else.

There are crickets, too, lots of them on this late spring night, though she can hardly hear their chirps over her thoughts. Ironic, since everything just seems too damn... quiet. And he's not even snoring up a storm beside her like usual. Perhaps he's still partially awake. Maybe he _knows_ something's up. No, not maybe. Definitely, because getting anything by him unnoticed is impossible, even when he's "asleep." Hell, she can't even take a minute longer than normal in the bathroom without him raising an eyebrow in concern and asking if she's caught a stomach bug or some other trivial illness.

Though at the moment, she's not in his arms. She's on her side, legs pressed together and bent at the knees, back towards him, and staring through the window into the star-dusted sky with an empty gaze. Her eyes are a bit glossy and wet, but also big and round like the moon, her mind only half here, half elsewhere. The poor damaged thing has slithered away into a dark, dark corner, doesn't seem to have any desire to crawl out either.

She lifts a hand to her face, inspects it in the moonlight. It's still so small, but has also been responsible for... so many things. She rotates it, bends her wrist, dainty little fingers flexing to prove that she is indeed still alive after everything; after winter.

Winter. _David._

She winces, and is reminded of what her hands _had_ to do to that monster in order to survive. Everything about that moment still lingers like a phantom limb; the cold touch of the machete in her palm, fingers grasped around its handle in a death grip. She can feel it, all of it, even after all this time to heal.

Both eyelids gradually close, hand returning to the mattress as she draws in a breath and attempts to put an immediate halt on where her mind is surely headed. She exhales, calm and slow, deliberate, feels the breath gradually leave her lips, bangs of auburn hair fluttering in it.

"He's not here he's not here he's not here. He's gone," she mouths to herself, eyes squeezing shut as the wince in her face forms into a full bodied cringe.

The self assurance helps, somewhat, but the cringe says otherwise. Persistent that fucker is because his voice is gnawing at her again. _Y_ _ou can try beggin'..._ Those hands around her neck, squeezing her purple. The calluses on his fingers and palms, the edges of his fingernails digging into her skin... _oh fuck..._

A quiet, wounded yelp slips free from her lips, and she curls into the fetal position. She rocks back and forth, all small and compact, subtle and short, anxious and _afraid._ More breaths leave her chest, hot and heavy, yet quick and shallow all at the same time, increasing in frequency. She bites her lower lip, gives it her all to keep it together and stay quiet, trying so desperately hard not to wake _him_ up. She can't stand feeling like a fucking burden. Doesn't want to put her troubles on him, because they're not his to bear and he's got enough shit of his own to keep under wraps. Not to mention he's helped her through _this_ more times than they can count.

"You're okay you're okay you're okay," she whispers, still wincing, words hardly audible and dissipating into the cotton pillowcase beneath her lips.

But _oh fuck,_ those hands and those eyes and that sickly touch and he's kneeling above her strangling the life out of -

She squeals. Ellie Williams actually fucking _squeals._ The sound is sharp, painful to the ear like jagged glass carving into skin. And _Jesus_ she knows it'll break his heart into pieces if he ever has to hear that noise come out of her. But despite her efforts to rein it in, it's not all that quiet. It's far too strong and intense, far too natural to keep from leaking through the cracks of her toughened, yet breaking exterior.

Her rapidly welling eyes pop open, immediately finding their way back to the moon. She stares at it, tries to collect herself and counts the stars in its vicinity in hopes it will provide a distraction. Tries to remember the names of all the constellations Joel taught her... _Little Dipper. Big Dipper. Orion's Belt. Virgo. The Centaur..._

It's useless. Breathing has become difficult, and she can't tell if it's a byproduct of the giant lump forming in her throat or _those_ hands trying to strangulate her. Is he _really_ dead? It sure feels like he's returned, feels like he's on top of her once more, feels like his hands are constricting around her neck all over again. And before she knows it tears are dripping from her eyelashes, rolling down her freckled cheeks and falling to the pillowcase below. A cold, nervous sweat begins to percolate on her skin, and she swallows hard, struggles against the lump in her throat that feels more like a rock wedged deep inside than anything else.

But the harder she fights the _more_ she weeps, because now she's curling into a tighter ball and fucking crying into the sheets.

She convulses, _oh god,_ whole body lurching forward while letting out a quiet, muffled sob. The motion _wants_ to be violent and jarring, but she restrains it enough to keep it short, likewise for the noise that spurts from her lips. She's _fighting_ to keep herself together and not wake him up. Yet, there's a part of her that wants to give in and cut it all loose, let it out like she probably should because... well, if there's one thing the man can do it's sleep like a fucking log.

It's all futile. Within seconds she's squeezing her eyes shut and pouting, sniveling, quivering, and _breaking_ down into a hot mess. It's all pretty quiet, though, the little redhead so intent on keeping her sorrow constrained to the small bubble encasing her side of the bed.

Then it happens.

 _Oh._

A pair of large, strong hands slide underneath her armpits. And before she knows it she's rising off the mattress just a tad, sliding backwards, and all of a sudden she's _wrapped_ in his embrace.

It catches her off guard at first, eyes widening and muscles tensing a bit, but it's so familiar, so soothing, that it only takes a second or two for the flood gates to open; only a second to know it's now _safe_ to be vulnerable, to let go and cry it out like she should. Like she fucking deserves to after all these years. And what was merely quiet, restrained weeping, is now uncontrollable sobbing as she falls to pieces in his arms.

It's okay, though, because he's here to catch all the pieces as they fall, to cradle them like precious jewels and put them back together when she's ready. Pieces of her, even if shattered, broken and ground to dust, are safe with him. They won't get lost forever. He'll hold them dear, cherish them like no other. She doesn't have to worry. And, well, there's this (not-so)hidden part of her that has been secretly praying this whole time he'll wake up and pull her into his arms to cuddle. To snuggle in a ball of _them_ and let her know that everything _is_ okay.

He does it all in silence. Not a word leaves his lips. But she _swears_ she can hear a _"c'mere baby girl"_ as he does it. How the fuck does he say so goddamn much without saying anything at all?

She's not sure, but it's one of the many things she... loves? about him. He's always so patient, and so gentle with her. Always lets her come to him when she's ready, never pushes too far. Somehow he always knows where the boundaries lie. Well, of course he knows. He's Joel, right? _He knows you better than you know yourself._ And thank god those boundaries are receding closer and closer to her heart, because she's learned that distancing from him is about as fucking painful as anything this world has to offer.

As he pulls her into him, the lighter-than-featherweight girl squirming closer and closer and pressing the small of her back against his stomach, he can't help but notice how _fucking_ tiny and little she still is. She's a bit older, will be sixteen in a few months, in late July. At least that's when they _think_ her birthday is. Yet, she's still so undersized and small. Tough as nails, like always, but also still so precious, still so goddamn breakable under his weathered hands. She looks like she hasn't grown an inch since that day in Boston when fate brought them together. And he's figured out, just from the bits and pieces she's shared, that it's all a product of her lonely, painful childhood. Always going to bed hungry. Eating a decent meal only once every two or three weeks at best. The fucking definition of malnourished. _Jesus..._

It all ignites that familiar protective fire deep in his gut, and he lifts his head from his pillow, kisses her on the temple. The moonlight is bright enough to illuminate her face to the point where he sees the tears streaming down those soft and supple cheeks, sees the endearing pattern of freckles that adorns them. And he doesn't pull back right away, just lets his lips rest against her reddish strands instead as he takes in her scent, because _dear god_ is it sublime. Addicting even, like a drug. Sometimes he thinks he can live off of it if he has to. It tells him she's still alive. And here, with him. _Safe._

The smooch against her temple brings some relief, finally, at least a bit, from the bawling. The care and affection helps, certainly seem to, because she's relaxing into his arms _beautifully._ She's finding an undiscovered comfort she's yet to know ever existed, and he can practically feel the tension skittering from her muscles as her cries dissolve into muffled whimpers.

It's still a bit odd, though, to be taken care of. No one has "taken care" of her before. But he sure as hell has, and still _is_. Absolutely he is. And she's accepted that there's a large chunk of her that relishes it at every moment. She doesn't need to be taken care of. No. Sometimes she just _wants_ to be taken care of, and has her own ways and non-verbal cues to let him know she's craving it.

So she wiggles down a bit, to tuck her head under his chin, trying - yearning - to be enveloped by him. And _fuck_ if he can't give it to her. So he does. He firmly plants his chin against her scalp, wraps an arm over her and clutches her small form against him as he full on spoons her in a way he's only done once or twice before. During times like this, when she desperately needs him and he fucking knows it.

She sniffles, lets a few more tears roll down her cheeks, then wriggles a hand free and plasters it atop his before intertwining their fingers. It's her way of letting him know she's still here, with him, alive and breathing, ready to endure. A subtle _"thank you and please don't ever leave."_ And he won't. Never. He's here for good. Whether she knows it or not, he eats, sleeps, breathes and _lives_ Ellie at this point. And he'll be here _holding_ her forever to get her through this if he has to.

But she knows, though. Oh _yeah_ she knows. It's why she latched onto him and decided to stick to him like glue. He won't leave her like everyone else has. He won't let her end up alone. And in her current raw state, for a reason she's not sure of, that thought is enough to bring back the burning sensation in those greenish-blue marbles of hers as a wave of tears returns in full force. She squeezes his hand, weeps into the pillow and lets out another cry, chases it with a whimper.

Usually she improves in his arms, never gets worse. The fact that she's not makes him worry, sends a shiver down his spine, and the crushing blow to his chest from hearing her little sniffles and whimpers are enough to put a stop to his heart any moment now.

He swallows hard, sucks in a breath, then kisses her hair once more, keeps his mouth pressed against it. He's _never_ been one to pry, always letting her come to him when she's ready. But they've done this enough times now that he thinks, _just_ maybe, he's earned enough real estate at Casa-De-Ellie to make the first move.

His lips part, sticking to the auburn strands beneath them. "C'mon baby, speak to me sweetheart," he coos, the request muffled against her scalp.

 _Baby. Sweetheart._

She's never been either of those to anyone. Ever. But she sure as hell is now, _his_ in fact. And there's a short stretch of silence as she logs _this_ feeling into her long term memory banks. Engraves it into her mind; what it feels like to be held, to be referred to with terms of endearment that let her know how important and _special_ she is to someone.

The silence is nearly unbearable for him, though. Those seconds when she doesn't respond are some kind of fucking torture he's had yet to endure, petrified he's said too much and scared her off.

But she seems to sense the rising tension within him, feels his arms gradually tightening around her and notices a slight uptick in his body temperature. So she sniffles, wipes both eyes against her pillow, then _finally_ emits a muffled, tearful peep, lets him know he's done anything but scare her off.

"His eyes."

She stares ahead at the wall with a blank, far off and detached expression across her face, and gulps, throat knotting up again.

"Run little rabbit. Run..." she says, soft and hoarse, voice trailing off as a juicy tear from each eye dribbles down her cheeks.

 _Fuck..._ It's like he's being gutted with a hacksaw. So he responds immediately, doesn't skip a beat, and exhales into her hair in hopes she'll sync her breathing with his, coupling it with a gentle stroke to her cheek with his knuckles. It's a soft touch, affectionate, and _loving,_ and she interprets it as an invitation to roll over and bury her face into his chest.

"I - I can still feel his hands," she moans, cutting loose a sob as she squirms free just enough to do so and nuzzle his shirt.

He wraps her up, tightens both arms around her, crosses them over each other on her back as he pulls her into him. And _Jesus_ she's pressing the entirety of her small frame up against him like she's trying to fucking burrow under his skin and live there for eternity.

She chokes back another sob, pulls in a bumpy, quavering breath. "And his - when he - I can still - " She cuts herself off, can't finish as she can't help but cry into his chest. It's anything but quiet or restrained at this point, and _fuck_ it's killing him hearing her like this when she's snuggled in what is supposed to be her _favorite_ place, her nest. His arms.

There's a fury building in his stomach that knows _no_ bounds as he bears witness to her struggle. As he imagines what that piece of shit did to his Ellie. Imagines what _he'd_ do to _him_ if he got his hands on the fucker. Thinks how all those years of Hunter would have actually been worth it for just that moment alone.

But he squashes it all, keeps it locked away, because she needs him to hold it together right now in every way. So instead he simply buries his nose into her scalp, closes both eyes and gulps, coos to her again.

"Shh shh it's okay, it's okay. Take it slow. We're gonna get through it."

She heeds the advice, takes the time to collect herself and tries her best to sync her breathing with his, sucks in the musky scent of his shirt. _Him._ Joel. It's soothing, and familiar, and triggers an endorphin rush so good it's hard to describe. And it's just enough to hold back the next wave of tears.

He's not sure how much time passes while she weeps and sniffles in his arms, continually drying those glistening greenish-blues against his shirt as she gradually calms down. Doesn't matter, though, because right now it's just her, him, and the moon. Time is irrelevant at this point. A little over a year ago he was damn sure they'd run out of it for good...

After a few minutes, she ropes in a deep breath, uncorks another loud and unattractive sniffle. "Sometimes I swear his hands are still on me," she says all nasal and teary-eyed, hesitant and soft. But there's a minor sense of relief behind it because she's actually opening up, confiding in him.

He clenches his teeth, firmly digs his nose into her hair and tightens his grip around her to the point he's _almost_ squeezing too hard. She feels it all happen, and thinks she can even hear his molars cracking as he does so.

"Christ Ellie I'm so goddamn sorry I didn't get there sooner," he growls, lips brushing against her scalp, voice airy and raspy, and backed by a seething hatred that slips out only rarely. And there's a not-so-subtle sound of pain in it that tugs on her heart.

She unearths her head from the depths of his embrace, auburn mound of hair all frizzy, and ponytail brushing his forearm as she looks up at him for the first time since rolling over. "But you _did_ get there," she peeps, and finally with a hint of happiness, even awed wonder, as opposed to the crushing sorrow from earlier.

Their eyes meet, tether to the other's, and he nods before lowering his lips to kiss her on the forehead once more. It's a silent testament, a promise, a _"nothin' is ever gettin' near you again but me."_ Just his way of letting her know that where she is, right now, here all wrapped up with him, is the safest fucking spot in the world.

She knows. She's known those thick, branch-like arms have been her haven for a long time. She's been one step ahead of him on that front since the beginning.

There's more silence for awhile, and he lets her lie there for as long as she desires while he rubs her back, gently rocks her, lets her curl up and nuzzle into him like a kitten settling into a blanket. Hell, he'll do this the whole night and rest of tomorrow if need be. But after a few minutes he senses her heartbeat increase just a smidgen, feels her twitch in his arms and knows she's about to say something else.

In unison their gazes meet again. She even manages a smile because of it, likes that he's anticipated she's ready to _speak to him_ some more.

Dried tear trails line the button of her nose and cheeks. But in the moonlight, with those big, round doe-eyes gleaming up at him, she looks like _something_ else. So he smiles too, giant like a damn clown, can't help it, and patiently waits for whatever is about to leave her lips.

"Joel."

"Darlin'."

There's a short silence as she ponders, backed by nothing but another sniffle, chirping crickets and the sound of a gentle breeze blowing in the trees outside.

"Can I tell you something?"

He nods, takes note of her expression and waning smile, prays he can keep it from retreating too far and bring it back bigger than before.

"Always."

He knows he'll pay _dearly_ if he says no. Not that he would, though, because he'll never deny her a moment of... anything, really.

She clears her throat, exhales, slow and deliberate. "When you found me..." she starts, eyes wilting again, voice returning to a semi-wounded state.

His smile rapidly fizzles out, and a rare moment of expression that only she knows how to yank free escapes him, brow rising, genuine curiosity aplenty. And as she pauses she shifts in his arms a bit, all petite and delicate, tucks those slender pale legs in tighter, like she's trying to fill what little space remains between them. Like she's trying to get _more Joel_ than blanket.

Her lips part, unveiling the whites of her teeth that are just barely visible in the moonlight. Her voice comes out soft and hesitant, even a bit afraid like she's about to admit some horrible personal truth.

"That was the first time anyone's ever held me."

 _That_ nearly breaks him in half. It only takes a millisecond, and before she can even decipher his facial expression and reaction, he's cradling the back of her head, callused fingers intertwining with her ponytail as he lowers his brow to her scalp.

"Oh _Jesus_ you poor little thing," he groans under a whisper, voice brimming with pain because how the fuck can his a sweet, precious, creature be treated so goddamn cruelly? So he squeezes her tighter, holds her a bit closer, clutches her against him.

It hurts sometimes to be reminded of the fourteen years she's endured that no girl should, but _he's_ holding her, here and now, making everything seem okay. And miraculously her smile from before actually returns, washes over her lips, and she can't help but uncork a happy sigh as she closes her eyes and takes it all in. There's something about him, about being with him, that makes her feel... different. It's new, confusing, maybe even a bit scary, affection being some foreign, abstract concept she's only now getting to experience.

But she loves it. She fucking _loves_ it.

Putting it into words isn't exactly easy, and she's figured she doesn't need to. Figures he probably already knows. And _oh yeah,_ he totally does. If nothing else, the way he's looking back at her right now has her insides doing all sorts of twists and turns, flips and spins, tumbles and rolls, and tells her he's fully aware of how much she needs the care and affection, needs him. Needs it all to live and breathe.

His deep voice break the trance, the calming trance those dark brown eyes and worn face have put her in, "well." He pauses, clears his throat, and it causes her to suddenly fidget like she's embarrassed, or just been caught in the act of being awestruck. It's subtle and hardly noticeable, but he's _the_ ninja. And when it comes to the two of them, it's impossible to out-ninja the ninja. So he of course notices...

And she knows he's caught her, doesn't seem to care though since she has yet to glance away even for a second. Instead, she smirks at the whole ordeal, doesn't hide it. He follows suit, mimics it without thinking, knows she's waiting for him to continue.

"In the interest of sharin'," he starts, pausing again.

 _Jesus._ Master of suspense the man is. Then again, it isn't Joel Miller if opening up doesn't resemble the act of pulling fucking teeth.

But she's already perked up, eyebrows bouncing, cheeks dimpling and mouth widening to form a smile in anticipation of whatever he's about to say. Every time he _does_ open up is a demonstration of implicit trust, and she's been slowly chipping away at his outer shell for nearly two years now. Like hell she's gonna stop now...

He reaches down, brushes away a bang of hair from her freckled and _perfect_ little face. "Reckon I didn't think much of it at the time, but the wisest thing anyone ever said to me..." he stops once more, rubs the scar above her eye with a thumb while taking a second to _adore_ her.

"Hold onto what you love an' never let it go."

There's a sincerity underneath the thick Texas accent that lets her know he's not just reciting some cheesy line from a movie pre-outbreak. And it hits her. Hard. Like a ton of bricks. Crumbles her to pebbles, smacks her right across the face. It's suddenly hard to breathe, next breath catching in her throat because the truth behind his statement is so fucking real; tangible even. She gulps, heavy, hard and rock-like, images of everything they've been through, their journey and Salt Lake City, darting across her mind, images of _them_. And _holy shit_ there's a boat load of butterflies in her gut along with this warming tingle that's indescribable and... _new._

Maybe in the moonlight he sees her face flushing with heat. Maybe he doesn't. Hopefully not, and thank god for the dark because if he _were_ to see the wide open smile and goofy, dumb expression sprawling across her face right now he'd never let her live it down.

Although, he seems to sense _something,_ because he's pulling her up higher, guiding her face into the crook of his neck, the spot he _knows_ she likes. And he's holding her, cradling her, in a way she's never felt before. It's almost overwhelming, and she can't help but beam like a fucking star it feels so _good_. And in her mushy, silly and googly-eyed state, part of her is on the verge of letting loose another squeal _._ Only this time one of pure, unabated joy.

But that would be bad. Like. Real bad, because he _is_ awful, after all, and would make fun of her for it until the end of their days.

Well... actually, would that _really_ be so terrible? _Hmm, maybe not..._

Regardless, she doesn't loosen the reins on it, and gives just enough effort to hold it back so it comes out as a mere squeaky and teary-eyed giggle. And she smiles, so goddamn wide, all warm and giggly, breaths brushing against his neck, and simply interprets his demonstration of affection as a thinly veiled _"I ain't ever lettin' go."_

Intuitive girl. She's right, because Joel holds onto what he loves.


End file.
